


And light of foot, and unconfined

by Petra



Series: Three red words [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-09
Updated: 2006-09-09
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: Not that anything's safe from Oracle, or really from Batman if she's working with him.





	And light of foot, and unconfined

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://thete1.livejournal.com/profile)[thete1](http://thete1.livejournal.com/) gave me the bunny and beta-read. [](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/profile)[brown_betty](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/) cheered me on and offered advice.

There's a point of no return and there are burning bridges.

Yoska and Amygdala and Haly's and everything, everywhere, is burning in front of his eyes and grey as ash. Fighting for Amy's life in every way he knew how, every piece of him aching and every muscle as stretched as it can be -- every self-restraint snapping like Babs' patience with him -- and it doesn't matter anymore what the rules are. Not really.

What matters more than anything is making this stop. If Dick doesn't do something, one psychopathic asshole is going to keep running him until he hasn't got anywhere else left to run.

That's not going to happen anymore.

It's not hard to avoid killing blows -- Dick knows better than that, even now, past the end of the line, breaking all the rules and pulling out all the stops. It's not physically hard to hit Blockbuster, brain-swollen, heart-murmury Blockbuster, just in the right place at the right speed that he's never going to think anything again except "Breathe in, breathe out."

It makes the red fog fade a little bit from Dick's gaze to do it. When Blockbuster falls down the stairs, Catalina shouts and chases after him two steps before Dick catches her. "He's not going to hurt anybody now," he says. "It's over."

She kisses him hard. "Jesus, querido --"

Dick knows -- too clearly, now -- how much of a crutch she's been -- someone to help, and someone whose darkness he could ignore the way he was ignoring his own. He pushes her away gently. She's not as dark as this is going to get. "Sorry, Tarantula. I have stuff I have to deal with."

Catalina leans against him. "I can help."

She's warm and present in ways nobody -- especially not Babs -- has wanted to be for him in a long time. But she's wrong. "Not right now." Dick starts up the stairs. "I'll call you if I need you, okay?" He can still smile at her.

Blockbuster might be dead from that fall. His neck -- however thick it is -- might have broken. But no big loss there, even if he is.

Dick takes his first really deep breath since things started to break.

*

He knows -- absolutely and certainly -- that Bruce knows already what happened.

It doesn't take that long to get his own accounts separate, locked down -- not that anything's safe from Oracle, or really from Batman if she's working with him --

And Oracle has zero reason to be nice to Dick, right now --

But it's a start.

It lets him feel comfortable spending the cash for a new apartment building and a warehouse. He's going to need a place to put things, after all. He's not going home -- back to Gotham -- with his hat in his hand, asking for any damn batarangs.

It doesn't take a lot of money to furnish his new place in spartan Swedish glory, though what the IKEA people ever thought they were doing opening an outlet within an hour of the 'haven, Dick will never know. Just walking in makes him feel like something's going to blow up.

Like maybe he'll have someone else to beat -- mostly -- to death.

He gets out with nothing more than minor wallet damage and stupidly named furniture.

At night, he patrols the way he always has and doesn't, even in passing, think about calling Amy. About warning her, or apologizing. He can hack the police database for the report on Blockbuster as easily as Babs could, by this point, and it's not that hard to see the places where she tried to leave him space.

He could still go back on that side of the law, that way. Nobody gives cops shit for killing lunatics. But they do get in trouble for excessive brutality, especially if they're in the habit of falling into drug deals from three stories up and kicking the bastards in the face, sending the middle school drug runners back home to their grandmas. It's part of Nightwing's deal -- has been for a long time -- and nothing about it has to change.

He doesn't maim them.

That kind of treatment is for the rapist behind the bus station who will never pee standing up again, and the woman is crying and clinging to Nightwing -- making him feel as though maybe he can keep the name -- and he takes her to a clinic where they know his silhouette and don't ask questions.

When he gets home, he still smells like her perfume a little, but it doesn't mask the scent of Zesti-Ade. He says, "Thought you quit," from outside the kitchen window.

"Not quite like you did," Tim says, and pushes the window up another five inches. "But -- yes."

"Your dad got hockey tickets on a meeting night again?" Dick asks, not reaching over at all to tousle Tim's hair. It's not who they are anymore.

Tim's got dark circles under his eyes. "You didn't hear." Only he can be so dry.

Well, not only Tim. But it's a family thing, with the family that doesn't love Dick anymore because they can't.

"I'm kinda out of the loop," Dick says, peeling off his gauntlets. There's blood on them, and that's not new, but it's worse now.

Tim takes a deep breath. "My dad's dead."

There's no conscious thought between hearing that and hugging him as tightly as if they were still on the same team. "Oh, god, Tim."

Tim shivers and hugs him back. "I --" He's not crying. Tim doesn't.

Dick just holds onto him for as long as Tim lets him. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks." Tim smacks him on the shoulder and lets him go, then squares his jaw. "Are you coming home with me, or what?"

"Who did it?" Dick asks, knowing it's going to make Tim wince -- and it does, but he has to ask.

"Captain fucking Boomerang." Tim tightens his hands into fists by his sides and it's not possible not to hug him again. "If I'd been on the job -- if Stephanie hadn't been Robin -- if --"

"It's not your fault," Dick says, reflexive and useless. If Tim doesn't know it in himself, he's not going to believe it from Dick.

Tim shakes his head but doesn't pull away yet. "He was after -- after heroes' families. Like I was a hero -- I --" Now he turns away, crossing his arms over his chest hard. "It was because I was Robin he was in danger, and because I stopped, I couldn't save him in time. I didn't know, I -- I just --"

Dick squeezes his shoulder -- not because Tim wants it, but because it's the only thing Dick can do. "You had reasons for stepping down. It was everyone else's problem to pick up your slack."

"And they didn't," Tim says bitterly, choking on a sob. "And he died." He covers his face with both hands. "And the only thing -- the only thing -- that makes sense is to try, try to stop it from happening to other people."

"Yeah," Dick says. "I -- I know." He tousles Tim's hair, just to see what will happen, and Tim turns around and looks at him again. "Sometimes -- sometimes it doesn't work, though."

Tim's lips are pressed together tightly and he doesn't smile or cry. "Which is why you pithed Blockbuster."

"I --" It's not the word he'd use for it. "Well. Yes."

"There was a line, there," Tim says, and he raises his eyebrows at Dick. "But you knew that when you did it."

Dick shakes his head, trying to figure out how they got from Tim's tragedy to whatever game this is. "Yeah, I'm sure he disowned me the second he saw the footage." There's bitterness in his voice even though he's been thinking those words over and over since he did it, trying to make them sting less.

Tim reaches for his shoulder -- Tim, actually initiating physical contact -- god, if Leslie doesn't hate Dick it'd be a good idea to get the kid checked out. "You mean like the time you killed the Joker?"

"It didn't take," Dick says, leaning into the touch, "so he probably -- I don't know -- dealt with it. I mean -- Babs --"

"Would you do a better job of it this time?" Tim asks, softly.

Not so soft the video pickups Dick knows have to be around the place won't hear him, but softly, just the same.

Dick really does tousle his hair this time because it's just that wrong to do it while he says, "There might be chopping up into little bits and jumping up on down on them to be sure the bastard's really gone."

Tim shivers. "He's in Arkham."

"For now." Dick shrugs and backs off a little, gives him space to be freaked and angry and whatever he needs. "And it's not like I could get him in Gotham -- but if he ever, ever comes here --"

"You might need backup for that," Tim says, and his voice is back to affect-free.

Dick thinks in one bright long stretch about Batman and Robin and partnership and the Teen Titans and the Outsiders and teammates who are -- were -- family and everyone he's ever fought with who will never, never stand with him now. All the people who've ever had his back who probably hate him if they know, the ones who'd take him out if they could.

It's one of those unspoken perqs of being in charge of a bunch of teams -- you know how to take out your allies. He's spent more hours training with the best and brightest, more hours studying tactics that will work against Superman, Wonder Woman, Starfire, Arsenal than almost anyone -- building them up means he can take them down.

But Bruce knows the double-edged nature of training as well as anyone -- knows Dick better than anyone, and Dick's still standing.

About three feet from Tim, now.

Tim knows him too well and always has. There's no way around him, and if it comes to a fight, it would get really ugly.

"If I need backup, I'll hire Deathstroke," Dick says lightly. "I've got the cash socked away for it, and I know his capabilities."

"That's one solution." Tim takes a notepad out of his pocket, one of those little cloth-bound sketchpads. "Or --" he flips it open, finds his page, and hands it to Dick. "Well."

The colors make more sense than the costume design. Neither suit Tim's coloring exactly, but they get the point across.

It could be a plant. A trick. Something Bruce set up to get under his guard and trick him into going home.

Except Dick's not anywhere near stupid enough -- or sure enough -- to think it would take anything more than Bruce being here instead of Tim to get him to try harder, try again, until he managed to believe everything was mostly okay.

Not yet.

Except.

Tim smiles at him with the narrow, private look that he's learned recently. The one that means he's as honestly happy as his kid-beaming ever meant. "Nightwing needs a Flamebird?" he says, and it's not the surety he had back when. This time, he's right about what he's saying and he's asking -- offering -- the right things.

Bruce could come into the kitchen with a thousand apologies and they'd take him down.

It'd be hard, but they could do it. Together.

Just like Dick can smile, now, and give Tim a hug that doesn't hurt to give. "Oh, yeah, he really does."

"I thought appropriating Bette's costume would be a bit much, even considering her retirement," Tim says, "but the colors --"

"We'll have to work on the design." Dick shakes him a little by the shoulders. "Why didn't you just say this was why you were here?"

Tim's smile is lopsided and thin, but real. "I can be taught. And it worked better this way, right?"

As opposed to -- Dick hugs him again. "God, Tim. I -- yes, this was better. Yes. I could really use some backup. Yes. Um. We'd better get you a bed, huh."

"I can sleep on the couch for now, but -- yes." Tim pats his shoulder. "I'd say we ought to have separate bases, but there's really no point, is there."

Considering that their list of known opponents includes pretty much everybody Dick can think of -- "We might as well stick together, little brother."

Tim smiles again at that. Things just might work out.

*

There's a new gang in town, moving in on Blockbuster's old territory and slurping up all the loose ends they can find. The ringleader -- or maybe there's more than one of them -- is pretty elusive for a week after Nightwing holds the first lackey upside down while Flamebird pokes him in delicate spots and finds out that there's something big happening in town.

Mostly, apparently, because the bastard was biding his time, or her time, or they were biding theirs -- whatever. It doesn't entirely matter who's in charge when there are fifteen thugs trying to beat the crap out of them.

Flamebird's new weaponry -- which, someday, Dick will stop referring to as "Spaceballs: the Flamethrower," he swears -- at least clears him a wide swath on the floor of the warehouse.

It's not that fifteen guys is a lot for the two of them, but they're still adjusting to each other's fighting style.

And Flamebird's clipped, "Ringleader spotted, I'm pursuing," is enough to warn Nightwing to pick up the pace.

He doesn't see the ringleader for another three minutes, not until all his annoyingly persistent opponents are nursing headwounds and bloody noses all over the concrete slab of the floor, and generally staying out of the way.

By that time, the guy's got his helmet off and under his arm, which is just as well. Somebody running around the 'haven wearing that piece of memorabilia had better be prepared for Nightwing to shoot first and ask questions later.

Flamebird's not shooting anyone. He's just staring, balanced on one of the beams up by the ceiling, his bo out but not moving.

It's a quick grapple ride to get behind the guy, but it's not silent enough. He turns.

And launches himself right at Nightwing.

It'd be a long fall if he fell. If he did anything -- stupid, stupid -- but get knocked on his ass on the I beam and grab at the guy.

It's not Ivy, so he's not expecting the kiss.

He should've known from something else -- anything else -- but he knows who it is before he hears the bastard gang leader laugh. "Hey," he says, and the laugh is familiar, the tone -- everything. "Long time no see."

"You're dead," Nightwing says, and now he gets why Flamebird was staring. The helmet still isn't making a damn bit of sense, but that'll come. Maybe.

"You know, people keep saying that, but -- not at the moment." Jason --

Jason grins at him. From far enough away that Nightwing could punch him good and hard if he wanted to.

Jason's alive.

Now they're both staring.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Nightwing asks.

"Heard there was a party." Jason puts his hands on his hips, showing off his dumbass helmet. "Or is it a support group? Ex-Robins Anonymous?"

"This is our city," Flamebird says, his voice cold.

Jason laughs. "Sure it is, buddy. That mean you're going to keep cockblocking my operatives?"

Nightwing glares at him. Jason's wearing a red domino and it looks strange after a month of their more simplified masks. "If you want to run a gang, go somewhere else. Blüdhaven's going to be safe."

"Really." Jason crosses his arms and makes a show, even with the mask, of looking Nightwing up and down. "And you and Flamer over there are going to keep it that way? Even though you're on the big bad Bat's shitlist?"

"Yes," Flamebird says, as calm as ever. "Whether or not you want to cooperate."

Jason shrugs. "I've got no problem with that. Really. I was mostly -- well. I'm kind of invested in pissing him off, too."

Nightwing shakes his head. "That's not the goal."

"No?" Jason raises an eyebrow at him. "You're just doing it as a side-effect?"

"Essentially," Flamebird says. "Are you going to disband your operations or leave town?"

Jason turns and looks at Flamebird, so Nightwing misses his facial expression, but the body language is unmistakably flirtatious. "Why, you know of a better gang I should run with?"

"Potentially." Flamebird's smile is even sharper than Robin's used to be. "How will you prove your trustworthiness?"

Jason spreads his hands, still holding the stupid helmet under his elbow. "The enemy of my enemy?"

"No," Nightwing says firmly. "Not even close."

Jason's nod is quick. "I'll take out the gang. It'll be easiest for me."

Nightwing touches his shoulder. If Jason's going to really fight, he's going to need better armor than his jacket -- something more like the orange-red of Flamebird's bodysuit, possibly with the reinforcement of the cape Nightwing made him keep. "You do that, little wing, and there's space for you." He meets Flamebird's eyes for a second, through the double sets of quasi-opaque lenses, and gets Jason into a headlock.

"Asshole!" Jason protests, smacking Nightwing in the leg. He drops his helmet at the first noogie. "Jesus, I'm going to get you back for this."

Flamebird doesn't laugh out loud, but Nightwing can hear him doing it anyway. "Good luck with that."

Jason straightens up when Nightwing lets him and runs a hand through his hair. "Son of a bitch."

"Go take care of your flunkies," Nightwing says, waving a hand at the mostly unconscious guys on the floor of the warehouse. "Oh -- and Jay?"

Jason frowns at him, and it deepens when Nightwing smiles. "What?"

"Leave your hat at home."  



End file.
